Good morning readers!
I apologize for my absence, but as I explained in my last post, I’ve been taking some classes and have just been generally pretty busy. It doesn’t help that my mind was three times as busy with everything else that I was trying to accomplish. But, here we are, two months later, still breathing and still writing.
In a recently unearthed folder on an old computer, I discovered this poem. It’s from my undergrad years. Specifically, it’s from my Advanced Poetry class. The assignment was to personify an everyday object. I reached out to an old friend for help when, the day before the assignment was due, I couldn’t think of a proper subject. When Sarah gave me the word “baby’s crib,” I’m sure she wasn’t thinking what this poem became.
I tried to write from a new perspective. The typical image that comes to mind of a baby’s crib, at least in my experience, is a peaceful nursery with maybe a lullaby tinkling in the background or a loving mother humming some folk song, I don’t know, but I wanted to turn that image on its head. Put some reality back into the scene and deromanticize it a little.
As an undergrad junior with zero parental experience, I should say that I might not have been the best person for the job, but it turned out decent, I think, and I’m excited to share it with you.
Cry Me a Bag of Shit: A Crib’s Lament
Your mother wiped my feet with Lysol wipes
after your brother’s puppy pissed all over them.
She wiped my mat and bars with more wipes
for good measure: a baby’s bed can never be too clean.
You cry night after night, and your parents take turns
feeding you, burping you, changing you
at three in the morning. I can hear them complain
about it later in the kitchen three doors down,
but no one gives a shit about me.
I broke one of my wheels the other day, after
you threw a tantrum for the formula you hardly drink.
I could feel the bones in your tiny fat foot
as it hit my bars again and again. Did you apologize?
No. You cried harder. Did they? No. No, they appeased
you; gave you the damned bottle before fixing my wheel
for your safety—they did a crappy job, by the way.
Your mother used the wipes again to clean up your mess.
Not just your pap and your vomit, but your shit, too.
She pulled out a Pampers wipe to clean you and
another Lysol one to clean me.
I never did like the smell of lemons.
Just promise me this:
when I end up in your baby’s nursery
after you’ve grown up, promise me
that I won’t have to deal
with your brat’s bags of shit, too.
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I plan to return to posting weekly, so keep an eye out for updates, and I hope you have a marvelous day. If you haven’t had the best of days, I hope that my writing helps you in some way and that you might find at least a little joy in the remainder of your day.